A Portrait of a Genius
by TapTapAlways
Summary: After Sherlock returns after the fall, he and John venture into a relationship that is a dream to John, but the ex-army doctor is increasingly concerned about his genius' reserve. He knows that they love each other, so what is really wrong with Sherlock? (There is now three sequels called "Christmas With A Genius"/"A Johnlock Christmas", "Loving a Genius" and "My Sherlock")
1. Chapter 1

_This is a tiny experiment of mine, because I got bored and read some Johnlock. When I had finished with the brainbleach I decided to experiment some for myself. (I didn't need the brainbleach because of the pairing, because I can really see where that comes from, though I am not really a shipper, and I honestly wouldn't judge anyway, but some interpretations were truly the proof that the back-button is really your friend - if you can just hit it fast enough...)_

 _All recognisable content belongs to its respective owners. I mean no copyright infringement nor make any money from this story._

 _Enjoy!_

 _TapTap_

It was really in the little things, the proof. John watched Sherlock pace about, from where he was sat in his armchair with a book, and couldn't hold back a fond smile. They had become a couple shortly after Sherlock had returned from the fall - so soon in fact that his bruises from the punch John had given him after reappearing at Baker Street as if he had never been gone hadn't entirely faded.

Things were back to the same and yet better than ever. And John kept noticing all the - glorious - little details that truly showed how much Sherlock loved him, like he had adored the other man for ages.

Sherlock hadn't called him an idiot since the night he got back. He said please and thank you. Sparingly, granted, but at the very least he had learnt the words. He apologised if he hurt him. He dressed in the shirts John preferred almost exclusively. He had even apologised to Lestrade for being unusually obnoxious and rude at John's insistence. And he could spend hours absentmindedly rubbing John's back.

John had moved into Sherlock's bedroom when he had "died", crying into his sheets until they no longer smelled a bit like him, and they shared it now, having instead set up the spare bedroom as a mini laboratory, so that John got to keep his kitchen in the more normal setting he had used it for the past few years.

John moved to the couch after Sherlock had flipped onto it, and immediately found himself cuddled up in six foot of consulting detective as he read. He sighed in pleasure at the slowly stroking hand up and down his back, but he knew better, these days, than reciprocating. He had found, during the first few weeks of their relationship, that Sherlock did not enjoy touch. It worried him, in fact it worried him a lot, but what could he do about it?

Sherlock didn't generally enjoy being touched in any form, he knew that. Most people he preferred watching from a fair space, though he tolerated Lestrade and Molly to touch his shoulder or arm, and to John's knowledge never had minded Mrs Hudson's mothering or hugs in the least. He had never objected to the occasional, casual touch from John before either, didn't now, in fact, and he seemed to enjoy kissing, was certainly seeming to relish doing the touching, but anything beyond the casual or simply fond, was distinctly off limits when John did it. Even just a stroking motion across his back would get the genius to tense up and - which was frankly alarming - politely extract himself.

John was alarmed, and the genius must have noticed, but what could he do? Sherlock wouldn't discuss it, and John was afraid to force the issue. He didn't want to spoil all the lovely things he had, so he suffered in silence, grasping his book hard to fight the temptation. He was in heaven, but it was hell.


	2. Chapter 2

John moved to sit up, after what felt like an eternity of being touched without being allowed to touch in turn, and instead pulled Sherlock to lie with his head in his lap, so that he could caress his hair; one of the few touches that was never declined. He took comfort in touching the soft curls of his genious as he continued to read his book.

Sherlock was unmoving underneath his hand, as he so often was, no doubt lost in his mind palace somewhere. John had long since stopped to be concerned about it. It was simply a Sherlock thing to do. It didn't bother him in the least, hadn't for years.

When he finally rose, gently tangling himself away from his best friend, not to mention the love of his life, Sherlock briefly opened his eyes, but, obviously determining why he moved just from his expression, settled again as John moved into the kitchen to cook them both some dinner. Food was another thing that had changed since Sherlock came back, or rather, with their relationship.

Sherlock still did not like to eat during cases, still urged that it slowed him down, but in between them he would eat, obediently rather than willingly, just because John asked. Cooking was simpler, too, with a kitchen that weren't being used as a laboratory, and also since money was far less scarse these days.

Mycroft had full access to and the rights to decide over the Holmes' family funds - which were considerable - but had never given Sherlock anything from it, due to, well, Sherlock being... Sherlock, but had decided after they'd been together for almost six months to give John a monthly allowance, now that he, so to speak, were "with" Sherlock. It was several months ago now and had started to feel like a fairly natural thing, if in a Holmes kind of way. It made shopping easier.

John cooked a very nice, if he may say so himself, meal of stewed vegetables, bacon and pasta, and dished some onto two plates, less for Sherlock than for himself. Sherlock had a tendency to simply eat what John had put on his plate, as if viewing it as an assignment of sorts, and he could look somewhat overwhelmed if it was too much. John had decided not to push. No matter how healthy it was for his genius to eat more, he did it for him; and thus he should not take advantage.

The ex-army doctor put the plates down on the coffee table and watched the genius come alive at the sound. Sherlock no longer needed any prompting to grab a fork and his plate and start to eat, and he even smiled at him with a, for Sherlock, gentle "it is good". "Thank you, Sherlock". John could only just hold back a wince at how his voice came out. It was, very poorly, too, hiding a sigh, and the tone was sad and thoughtful, not at all the relaxed, comfortable, loving tone he had aimed for. Sherlock put his plate down and eyed him warily.

"You are unhappy" he finally noted. "Yea" John agreed, only to catch himself "that is, no! No, not at all". Sherlock looked puzzled, giving his doctor that look which John knew to interpret as "I need a translation to understand that, John".

John took a deep breath and put his own plate down. He hated how vulnerable Sherlock looked. "I am happy" he assured him "that is, with you. I promise. Alright?" Sherlock nodded in confirmation, slowly and deliberately, and then watched him, waiting for the rest. "But there is something we definitely need to address. I worry about you". Sherlock's eyes did not clear "but I am fine" he noted, prodding.

"Are you?" John watched him, trying to deduce like Sherlock might have. "You avoid me. I mean, I never get to touch you. That's hard, never being allowed to reciprocate. And I worry about why". He forstalled a reply, that he could already see as coming, and would probably be in the upset variety, judging by Sherlock's look. "No. I know that you care about me. It is blatantly obvious, Sherlock, so I have no fear in that regard" he ran a hand through his hair in that typical Sherlock-induced, half-amusing frustration "but I worry about what is wrong, Sherlock. A lot. And it bothers me, too".

 _Evil cliffhanger is evil._

 _All recognisable content belongs to its respective owners._

 _TapTap_


	3. Chapter 3

_So this is for Josette, who was nice to me and commented, and all those who have followed. Reviews makes more chapters. All recognisable content belongs to its respective owners._

 _TapTap_

Sherlock squirmed. John didn't believe it, but he had no choice but to, because Sherlock _was_. He watched him, having just about decided that this was a _very_ bad idea, when Sherlock spoke. "Yes. I... I..." the genius looked wastly uncomfortable. "How would you _like_ to touch me?"

John attempted to look reassuring, schooling his voice into a soothing tone "any way, Sherlock. Any way at all. Why do you not want me to?" Sherlock sighed and leant back onto the couch in that very Sherlock fashion. John decided to prod a little deeper. "You don't even let me see you naked. You were never shy about that _before_ we dated. Why now? You have seen me. Frequently, I might add".

Sherlock sighed, then blurted out "I was tortured when I was away". John stared at him, horror written all over his face. He had known tracking down Moriarty's network had been rough on Sherlock, but he had always kinda thought... well, nothing like that. "As in... what?" He finally asked, unsure if he really wanted to know. As a soldier, and a doctor, he had far too good of an idea already.

Sherlock merely shrugged. "Mind games. Noises and droplets and all the works. Not so successful on me. They beat me into a pulp at least once. Also..." for the first time he hesitated. John braced himself for whatever was coming. "I never enjoyed touch. But having someone slowly, slowly... a cut here, a punch there, needles, scorpion venom... it is hard for me to suffer anyone, anyone at all, even you, to touch the scars and still accept that there will be no new pain. I..." Sherlock gave him an honest look "I made myself believe that it was easier on you, not touching on this at all. It seems I was wrong. I am sorry, John. Really I am".

John couldn't help himself, he practically threw himself on Sherlock, hugging him hard and not letting go. He tried to avoid touching anything with his hands, but was somewhat surprised when Sherlock's hands came around him and started to gently stroke his back, clearly attempting to soothe. "It is alright, John. Everything is alright, I am so sorry" John was not sure what Sherlock apologised for, but he felt like he was the last one that ought to do so. It was not fair.

"I know, Sherlock. You have nothing you need to apologise about" John tried to reach up to kiss Sherlock on the head, but he was too short. Sherlock, obviously deducing what he was attempting, or at least near enough, sat down, careful not to topple John over with the motion.

"So... what do we do now?" Sherlock finally asked several minutes later. John took a deep breath, finally untangling himself, and reached for his plate, mostly to have something to do with his hands. Sherlock, taking his hints from John as so often, did the same. "Well" the former soldier said, looking mostly down on his plate. The revelation that shook all he thought he knew of the sacrifices Sherlock had made for him, amongst others, had been surprisingly quick, their food was mostly still warm.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Sherlock merely shook his head "I will, if you want me to, John, but I do not see the point". "Well, if you don't want to talk of it, I won't make you, Sherlock, but I am here should you... want to... I" "I know" Sherlock assured him, eating tiny pieces of food. "Will you... let me see some of your scars?" John asked somewhat doubtfully "were they treated properly?" Sherlock finds himself sniggering at that. Trust John to choose that moment to play doctor. "They do not hurt, I just... I left it behind. I do not understand why being touched is so uncomfortable".

John nodded slightly, then picked his fork back up. "We will solve it, then. Together".


	4. Chapter 4

John felt like the worst boyfriend ever. They had just gotten into bed, and normally, he would have let Sherlock spoon up behind him and hold him all night, even though he really preferred for it to be the other way around, and carefully keep his hands to himself. Not tonight. He had finetuned his plan as he put the dishes into the dishwasher after the peculiar dinner, and he was determined to see it through. Even though it made him feel like... well, a gigantic jerk.

Normally, John would sleep in his boxers, and Sherlock would hide himself entirely in a full pyjamas _and_ socks. Tonight, John was undressing him, just a little, getting rid of the pyjama jacket at least. Sherlock did nothing at all to stop him, or even dissuade him, and it only made him feel even more guilty about it. Though that was the easy part, it turned out.

At his first look at Sherlock's back, John thought he would keel over. It was littered by so many kinds of marks, none of them quite as bad as his own shoulder, but there were so many of them. And they were all bad enough.

Sherlock laid down and turned over onto his front, letting John look over his back. It felt like a relief, not having to hold himself back from John any longer, though he preferred not to look at his face right now. Not that John would think less of him for this, no, he knew better than that, but he knew it upset him. And Sherlock hated having to see John anything but happy and excited.

That did not mean that he could relax though, even though John's hands on his skin felt surprisingly nice. But however nice it felt, his body still subconsiously waited for the blow. He just hoped dearly that John didn't notice as much. Though John, of course, naturally, did just that.

John really hated how tense and still Sherlock was underneath him, as if he, too, was torturing him. But, knowing he should act now that he had pushed this far, John gently ran his hands over the scar-littered back, not letting himself be put off by how Sherlock might for all he knew have retreated back into his mindpalace, he was that still.

"Sherlock? Are you alright?" There was no reply for a few seconds, then a typical gruff Sherlock reply "I am fine, John". "Does any of these hurt?" John ran his fingers over the scar of a particularly nasty knife wound at Sherlock's side. The genius shook his head slightly "no, it just feels... strange to have them touched. It is... not comfortable" he scoffed "sentiment". John smiled, gently rubbing down the consulting detective's back, holding back a sigh as he just tensed up futher. At least he didn't leave this time. Though that actually just made John more worried.

There was something with cooperative Sherlock that was just a little bit unnatural, nice as it was for a change, John decided as he pulled the duvet up and, for once, curled up behind Sherlock, allowing himself to embrace him tightly. He was pleasantly surprised as Sherlock took one of his hands in his, squeezing it softly. They had a long way to go, but at least Sherlock was willing to go down it with him.

 _So, John has got his work cut out for him, caring for his damaged lover. All recognisable content belongs to its respective owners._

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	5. Chapter 5

For the first time in many weeks John woke and found himself alone. It had been Sherlock's habit since pretty early on in their relationshp to keep the books he currently found engaging on his bedstand, and simply grab one of them when he awoke, staying curled up in bed with John for as long as possible, accompanying him as he slept. John found he had much less nightmares with Sherlock there, and he suspected Sherlock, too, rather liked it.

Not that John had much of the nightmares anymore, almost a year after Sherlock's return, but he had had trouble those first months and weeks, not to mention the two long years when he was all on his own. He tried not to think about that.

As he put on jeans and a sweater and moved through the living room, he pondered how lucky he was to have Sherlock back, to _have_ Sherlock at all. He really loved him so much. Living without him had been so empty, so ordinary, so _dull_. And most of all, it had been living without Sherlock, and was thus, by default, unacceptable.

He picked up a few objects and put them on the coffee table, mostly books. The flat was entirely silent, so he assumed the kitchen bench would hold some scribbled, highly unreadable note from Sherlock, explaining his wearabouts. He had started to do that after the first time he had left the flat without John and came back home hours later to find the doctor crying in the bedroom, thinking his genius' entire return had been nothing but a good dream.

John would later try to alleviate his guilt that he had no indication that anything was the matter, and that he still struggled, but as he stepped into the kitchen, he was instantly grabbed, and a cloth of cloroform pressed strongly against his face. He didn't breathe it in, of course, but it seemed that they knew he wouldn't, because he felt the prick of a needle, and then there was no more reason to fight, even though he did. They outnumbered him, his face was covered so that he couldn't breathe, and within moments, a different kind of darkness took hold.

 _Evil Cliffhanger just becomes more evil with time, doesn't it? I am sorry about the shortness of this chapter - it simply refused to be broken up anywhere but there. From here on there will be a few darker themes discussed. Without spoiling too much there should be nothing to cause concern for most. If you are, however, likely to be bothered even by very vague mentions of past violence, skipping the next three chapters will do the trick._

 _All recognisable content belongs to its respective owners._

 _TapTap_


	6. Chapter 6

John woke again to silent steps, all of an efficient sort that almost reminded him of the hospital... or a military camp. Something covered his head, but not restraining. It was a soft piece of fabric, the quality hinting that it might belong to Sherlock, which he supposed was not a stretch, though the thought made his stomach lurch, that did not restrict his breathing. It would not even be very effective for blindfolding him, as he might easily shrug it off. But that would mean he gave away that he was awake. Was trying to gain time even useful? Did anone know that they - and how he hoped that this was wrong, that it was only him - were gone?

That was when someone unceremoniously removed the fabric. John blinked a little in the light, though it was not particularly bright. He was secured to a chair, with leather straps to the armrests and back, his legs tied similarly, and then together as well, making it impossible to move more than an inch in any direction. He doubted even Sherlock could have gotten loose.

And Sherlock. Oh, Sherlock. Sherlock was not two yards from him, tied down expertly, his face down, but tilted a bit towards John's side so that he wouldn't suffocate. The rest of his body was fixed to a board of some kind about as high as a standing-up desk, tightly as to stop him from any kind of movement, same as John. The army doctor found his gut clenching at the scene somebody had set. Sherlock was fastened to some kind of experimentation table or whatever, and he was placed in a chair, set out to Watch.

They were not alone, but the darkly dressed men whose faces were in shadow were clearly only somebody's henchmen. Sherlocks eyes suddenly met John's gaze. The genius didn't look scared, exactly, but very apprehensive, and as he caught the worried expression on John's face, there was anger, too. But not intended for John. Never for John.

John swallowed, trying to give Sherlock a reassuring gaze, when he realised that the genius, in addition to being tied up, was tightly gagged. He too, started to feel anger at that, struggling once more with the bonds, useless as that might be. Somehow, there seemed to be relief in Sherlock's eyes at that.

And then there were steps.

 _This might be the last evil cliffhanger, at least for a while... but probably not. All recognisable content belongs to its respective owners._

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	7. Chapter 7

John found that he was entirely free to turn his head, and what he saw first flooded him with relief, then he felt puzzlement, quickly followed by cold betrayal, and then finally mere confusion. What he saw was Mycroft Holmes, casually strolling through the warehouse, twirling his unbrella, just like when they had first met.

John was not gagged, but he found he had no words. What on earth was going on here?! As he turned back to look at Sherlock, he found him glaring daggers at his brother, but he found it somewhat reassuring that there still was no fear in his eyes.

"Let me first reassure you, doctor Watson" the elder Holmes started, going over to stand by Sherlock's feet, where he could look at both of them "that I have never, nor will I ever, mean any harm to my brother. He is entirely safe, and so, I assure you, are you. I merely wanted your opinion today. I would have preferred your help, but I had no illusions it would be given. And even if you could be persuaded, much as I doubt it, well..." Mycroft looked down on his umbrella thoughtfully.

"I wouldn't inflict that on my brother. A betrayal by me is one thing" he looked up to look straight at John now "he does not like nor trust me very well, after all. But by you? No, that would be hurting him, and I would never suffer any harm to come to my little brother" the 'minor official' smiled his trademark friendly, fake smile. "But I am sure you can sympathize with that, John".

John cleared his throat "so why are we here then? If you have no intention to harm him, why do this to him?! You must know...!" He stopped himself. "About his years away from our... care? Why, of course. And I know it torments him still. More than he knows". Mycroft had put his umbrella against another table, that contained, John saw now that he noticed it for the first time, and it felt like a punch in the stomach, various torture instruments. Surely Mycroft wouldn't...?

Mycroft Holmes elegantly shrugged out of his dark suit jacket and folded it before laying it down. Then he folded up his shirtsleeves. John thought furiously about something to say, dissuade him before he did something completely crazy. What was the point of this? What crazy thoughts moved through that brilliant, insane Holmes mind of his?

The former soldier looked back at Sherlock. He was looking only at John, not his brother, worry in his eyes as he searched over his body. John hurried to assure him. This much, at least, he could do. "I am not hurt, Sherlock". "He knows that" a look showed that Mycroft had come towards them again, holding a knife as naturally as he would a pen. "I think, John" he continued "you will find that what worries my brother is that you might hurt yourself. Do stop struggling. You will be set loose before you need to move, do not concern yourself".

John was only then aware that he was still testing every inch of his bindings. He was not about to obey Mycroft Holmes, now least of all, but something in the younger brother's eyes made him stop and consider. He let himself relax - which his muscles certainly thanked him for, wrong as it felt - and saw Sherlock let out a breath of what looked suspiciously like relief and promptly focus on his brother instead.

Mycroft, whose henchmen had mostly disappeared, though John could have, if he had cared to, spot a few in the shadows next to the empty walls, walked up to his brother and cut the black shirt off of him.

 _Funny anticlimax is funny. Weird plot twist is weird. And no, this is not deteriorating into some strange Holmescest, torture fetish... whatever. Never fear. All recognisable content belongs to its respective owners. And reviews would be helpful, as ever. Please tell me what you like and enjoy in this story._

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	8. Chapter 8

John ignored Mycroft from now on as he systematically triggered all his little brother's bad memories, without actually inflicting any new pain - the doctor in him recognised that there wouldn't be a mark on his lover - and focused on Sherlock.

As Mycroft moved on from knives to whips, riding crops, torture implements which names John didn't wish to learn and back to knives, using his apparent expertise from what must have been truly gruesome field-work to recreate a very believable torture senario, but replacing the actual bite of all implements with just a careful touch, or a rub of his fingers, John murmured reassurances and encouragement, while the tension in Sherlock's body slowly gave way to exhaustion.

There was still no fear, no terror, in Sherlock, though there was plenty of apprehension, visible in his eyes and evident in the tension throughout his body, and John could only conclude - and be grateful for - that Sherlock, when it truly came down to it, really did trust his older brother an awful lot. Enough for him to hold a knife within an inch of his throat without it being a cause for any alarm.

When Mycroft finished, by gently rubbing his little brother's shoulders, John found two of the henchmen loosening his bonds, until it was possible for him to stretch and stand up, after which he naturally went straight over and touched Sherlock in comfort, ignoring how that must have been Mycroft's plan all along. He told himself it didn't matter.

As John removed the fabric Mycroft had - surprisingly gently - placed over his younger sibling's eyes about halfway through, the older man took his henchmen with him and left.

 _I don't know much about torture_ or _psychology, obviously. Don't try this at home. And I promise the next chapter is longer. And coincidentally, already posted, as I think both together makes for a much more reasonable update length. Sometimes they just happen to end too quickly like that. All recognisable content belongs to its respective owners._

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	9. Chapter 9

John had helped Sherlock out of all of the restraints, and after a black car had taken them home, Sherlock had shut himself in the bathroom, refusing to talk about it.

John, who could not decide if he was worried or not, made himself tea and puttered about in the kitchen, making an unusually complicated dinner as he felt like he needed the distraction, even baking them some bread.

Suddenly he heard Sherlock's graceful footsteps behind him, and heard from the doorway "John? Are you alright?" John turned around, puzzled. "Me?! Sherlock, you are the one who was... tortured all morning!" Sherlock had that vulnerable expression he basically only displayed when he thought they might have problems between them. "Yes... but you were kidnapped because of me... again. Aren't you... upset? Isn't that... a bit not good?" "It is very not good, but that is on Mycroft, not on you. And it was hardly a bad kidnapping, for me anyway. Are _you_ alright?"

Sherlock blinks a little bit. "Oh. Yes, I am..." he grimaces "my brother touched me, but somehow I survived". John laughs and turns back to the stove. "That's good". John let Sherlock watch him in silence for a while before asking, still with his back to him "so, how are you feeling? How... was it?"

Sherlock's reply was dry and made John chuckle. "Well, it certainly proved that my brother has been up to no good in the past. I might threaten to tell mummy".

Sherlock was watching John cook from the doorway for several more minutes before he said anything more, but John didn't push. "It was... strange though. Liberating? It felt like I was back inside my memories, but this time there was nothing to flinch from. I mean, I am not saying..." Sherlock added the last words somewhat quicker than the deliberate tone he had previously used.

"I know" John replied kindly, turning to smile to him. "We have time. I will not expect you to be suddely changed. If you feel better, that is good enough for me. We will continue to work at it, okay?" And his genius nodded in agreement. "So, what's for dinner?" And it didn't matter that he was merely being humored with the question, John was glad it had been asked.

 _Is this still in character? Is it any good? Is anybody still reading? Could I please have some feedback? Pretty please? All recognisable content belongs to its respective owners._

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	10. Chapter 10

John sat down on the couch, a little sad but certainly not surprised that Sherlock opted to instead sit in his armchair with his tea. They had eaten by the kitchen table for once, and now they sat in silence, eating some of Mrs Hudson's delicious biscuits and watching a television program, just an old series. At least John was - Sherlock was just sat in his chair, undoubtedly lost in his mind palace.

John found himself deeply regretting his actions the previous evening, that they now sat this far apart. At least last night he could touch him, however restricted it was, and now Sherlock was across the room, for all he knew unwilling to ever return. Why did Mycroft have to meddle in things?!

"You are unhappy again" John was startled out of his thoughts by Sherlock speaking from over in his chair, looking at him once more looking vaguely vulnerable, and at the same time clearly was attempting to deduce him. His voice was soft, and rather unlike him, as he asked "tell me why? Please?"

John sighed, but obliged. He dreaded the day when the genius would figure out just how receptive John was to him saying please. He proceded to explain his entire thought process to the other man, trying to be as thorough as possible. Sherlock listened silently, no doubt filing every bit of it away in that massive mind palace of his, but when he finally finished, Sherlock rose and came to curl into his side, letting John stroke the side of his shoulder and neck.

John did so for a few moments, needing the comfort, but then stopped "you don't have to" he reassured the other man, but Sherlock merely shook his head, saying as if it somewhat surprised him, too, noting honestly "it does not bother me". John frowned, a little taken aback "it doesn't?" "No..." Sherlock seemed to consider this, no doubt picking it apart into a thousand tiny deductions and analysing it "that is not a spot with... many scars" he changed whatever he was about to say "and now all it reminds me of is you rubbing my shoulders after Mycroft let you loose, and that is not bad... that doesn't bother me".

John could not help it, he beamed with all his face, and did not even try to hide it. He continued to, for lack of a better word, pet Sherlock until he mumbled, sounding bothered, after all "John?" "Yes, Sherlock?" John held still, feeling rather apprehensive. "You do understand, that this doesn't mean... I... it is one thing, and..." John smiled, gently stroking down Sherlock's hair. "Yes, Sherlock, I know that. And I meant it when I said we can take it step by step. But this is good. This is progress. And" he bent down to gently kiss the world's only consulting detective on the head "it means that I can touch you, now, properly. Somewhere, at least. We will work on the rest. I am not in any hurry. Don't worry, I won't push".

Sherlock relaxed again, curling up around him as he so liked to do, and they spent the rest of the night merely cuddling together, John returning Sherlock's touches all the while, and relishing being able to do so. Suddenly, he did not regret the day before at all.

 _Sorry if you got notified of this update twice - I had some technical issues. All recognisable content belongs to its respective owners._

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	11. Chapter 11

John let a few days pass, giving Sherlock his headspace, not pushing for anything at all, doing nothing that the genius had not already approved as "fine", figuring that even Sherlock Holmes sometimes could need just a few moments to sort his head, a few days of space after what must have been a traumatic event. Though he knew that Sherlock had not been afraid, he also knew that the event had utterly exhausted him, so he tried to give him some space to drift into the mind palace all he needed to sort it out.

This did, however, not extend to the physical. John knew his lover, if he could truly be called that when he barely allowed for a backrub, plenty well enough to know that physical distance was the very last thing Sherlock wanted nor needed now. So John spent most of their time together silently reading books and stroking his genius' hair or gently caressing or rubbing the skin he had been expressively permitted to. Which was honestly a big improvement, as Sherlock's neck and pale collar bone was very touchable.

John was lying on the couch, updating his blog, his lap full of consulting detective, while Sherlock was mulling over a case Lestrade had presented them with that morning, gently stroking the hair of his detective as he proofread the text he had written earlier, as Sherlock, who was in his usual manner absently touching him, suddenly looked up.

"Solved it?" John asked, looking up from his computer in turn. For a brief moment Sherlock looked taken aback, then he shrugged it off "oh, no. It was the brother in law, it was elementary. I texted Lestrade while you made tea". "Oh". John put his laptop down, trying to move as little as possible "then what have you been thinking so hard about?"

"You" Sherlock stated simply, and then promptly buried his face to John's side. John didn't even bat an eye at this, being more than used to Sherlock being particular. In his experience, such statements could lead three ways. Either, and doubtlessly most common, Sherlock was puzzled by something utterly mundane, and it would lead to some amusement and a brief explanation on John's part. Always rather brief, as however unused to sentiment that Sherlock might be, he was also a very, very quick study.

The other possible scenario was that Sherlock had become hung up on sentiment, as he called it, feeling something or possibly needing help sorting out just _what_ he was feeling, in short, that he was about to be completely adorable.

Lastly, and John's least favorite one, was that they were about to have a problem. Nevermind if Sherlock had become bothered by something, puzzled or just was uncomfortable, these were the times when Sherlock would withdraw or pull away, the same situation as when John might snarl or slam doors, little occasion as he had had for that lately.

So which of the three was it? There had been plenty of examples of all three in their time together, like the time when Sherlock had spent a full day puzzling over why John suddenly wanted to touch him so much more or openly nagged him about eating just because they were together. Or when he had one day, wastly uncomforable, as if he expected a lecture or catastrophe, confessed to John that he loved him. And the time when he, just as uncomfortable, or even more so, agonisingly politely excused himself and actually left the room when John had tried to touch him, a little too much.

After waiting for a few seconds, John tilted his head and asked softly "and what were you thinking?"

 _If this story had a tag, it'd be "Evil cliffhanger is evil". Sorry about that... No I am not. All recognisable content belongs to its respective owners._

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	12. Chapter 12

After waiting for a few seconds, John tilted his head and asked softly "and what were you thinking?"

"I... there is something I don't understand". John let out a sigh of relief, then smiled a little when Sherlock looked very puzzled. "This conversation could have gone in several ways, problems being one of them" he merely said by explanation. "I am glad that wasn't it. What is it?" He gently stroked his genius' hair.

"Oh. Well, there might be a problem, but not for me" Sherlock replied. "Nor for me, so I think we can both put those worries to rest right now" John assured him. "No?" John hated the insecure expression on his genius' face. "No" he assured him, smiling in a way he hoped would reassure his brilliant, but sometimes so innocent love.

He shut the television off and put his arms securely around Sherlock, giving him his full and absolute attention. "I have no issues. There is nothing that bugs me and you haven't hurt me in a very long time". He assured him, his voice steady and secure. "What is it you want to know?"

Sherlock no longer looked at him, watching his own hands instead. John could almost see him fighting the impulse to lock himself up, and shut him out. But he didn't. Instead, he spoke to the floor.

"Do you still find me attractive?" He finally looked up, however briefly "after all of this, I mean. All of the scars, all the... I mean, why would being so skinny be attractive anyway, evolutionally slightly overweight would be far more desirable in a partner certainly for a procreating standpoint as...". Here, John cut him off.

"Sherlock!" he cut in, gently, but decidedly, into the monologue that was getting far too fast and clinical for his liking. "It is true, your extreme skinnyness back when you first returned was not attractive. But you've eaten better than I have ever seen you do since then. You are perfect. I loved _you_ back then, not your body, and I do so now, whether or not you apply to society's standards of beauty. I find you gorgeous, and the scars certainly does not bother me if they do not bother you. I thought I had made these things clear to you. Where is this coming from?"

Sherlock sighed softly, then replied, still talking far too fast, but John, who was more than used to it, had no problems following. "You have not asked for sex since you got to see my scars, nor desplayed any of your usual indicators for interest or arousal, and it is now far overdue according to your normal curve of which you desire to..." John cut him off once more, before he got a headache. " _Sherlock_ , that is _not_ how love works".

John sighed, and rubbed his forehead with a hand, trying to figure out how to explain this to Sherlock. "I have been distracted. By you, mostly. I have been worried". He looked the consulting detective straight into his eyes, making sure that he got the message across. "And as for lovemaking goes... Sherlock, we have never actually... I mean" He coughed meaningfully.

"What? Of course we have!" Sherlock objected. John sighed again. This would go badly. "No, we haven't. You will go down on me everytime I want to, but I do not want to do that anymore, Sherlock. Have you ever felt any pleasure during our entire time together? You surely haven't let _me_ touch you! Sherlock" he struggled to keep his voice as gentle as possible. "These things are meant to be mutual. And I am not even allowed to rub your back. That's why I no longer want to, not that I don't find you attractive. I really, _really_ do. Alright?"

Sherlock grimaced a little "I'd want to. I think. But not..." "Not now. I understand that" John sighed. "Sherlock. These things are supposed to come naturally. You can't force yourself to want to. Let's just take one thing at a time, alright? And keep _talking_ to me, and I will do the same. Alright?" Sherlock nodded, and then retreated to his mind palace to sort the new information. John withdrew to the kitchen to do the same.

 _Thanks to Wiznerd the Eagle for her ideas and imput on this chapter. I was soundly stuck before your help! All recognisable content belongs to its respective owners._

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	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock didn't respond as John climbed into bed, gently unbuttoning his pyjama jacket, removing it half-seductively, putting his hands inside it and letting it slide off of the taller man. He then removed Sherlock's socks, before clicking the lamp of and pulling him against himself, tucking them both into the duvet.

Sherlock kept himself still. He really wasn't very comfortable with this, but he didn't want to push John away. But when John nudged him to lie on his front in the dark and started to massage his back, Sherlock gave a small noise of discomfort.

"I am hardly torturing you, Sherlock" John's voice was commanding, though kind, compassionate and caring, as well. "I am not going to push, but you do need to get used to this. So I will massage you for a small while every night, alright? Gently, I promise. It will not hurt. We need to work on this". Sherlock nodded, but didn't verbally respond. He just lay there, taking it as John asked for this, his mind filling with images that was everything but pleasant.

For the second time in just a few days, John awoke alone. Sherlock's side of the bed was not only cold, but it didn't have that destinctive Sherlock-shaped impression he usually left on his side of the bed. Probably because he never moved much as he slept. John distinctly remembered them going to bed together, so why did it look like Sherlock hadn't slept there?

"Sherlock?" John called out, moving out a little warily from their bedroom after dressing, remembering the last morning he woke alone. But there were no such drama today. Sherlock sat in his chair, staring at his violin. He might not have needed as much sleep as a normal human being to function, but John knew him very well. And the genius hadn't slept at all. He was sure of it.

John walked up to him and knelt down before him, laying his hands gently on Sherlock's knees, only to blink in surprise as Sherlock violently jerked away from the touch. "Sherlock? What is wrong?!"

Sherlock pulled away, pulling his knees up. "Don't touch me any more, please. I don't want to" John frowned, confused. "Are you angry at me for last night?" The genius shook his head, mumbling, looking into the fireplace, though it was clearly not so much that as looking _away_ from John. "I could never be angry at you".

"Then what...? Oh!" John's eyes softened into sympathy as he understood "you couldn't sleep, could you? I am so sorry. Did I bring back terrible memories? I am sorry Sherlock, it was never my intention to do that. I did not understand that it was so bad".

Sherlock merely nodded as a sign that he had heard, but John moved to stand behind him, gently stroking Sherlock's neck and hair, where he didn't mind the touches. He felt him relax fractionally. "I won't do it again" John offered. "We will find a better way".

 _Sleepless nights because of bad memories. We've all been there, hmm. All recognisable content belongs to its respective owners._

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	14. Chapter 14

It was not long after the late night _failure_ that John decided to stop trying so hard. Sherlock seemed happy enough as it was, and, truth be told, so was he. Maybe, it would simply be easier with time? John pondered this as he sat at the end of the couch, Sherlock being sprawled across most of it, not quite watching the cooking program which was currently on the telly.

Without thinking, he reached out a hand and rubbed Sherlock's foot, not remembering for the moment the good number of reasons why he should probably not do that. He did remember, however, as Sherlock made a small groaning noise, but he didn't stop, as it was clearly not a bad kind of sound.

John couldn't recall Sherlock ever objecting before to touches on his feet, though he knew that he _had_ touched them, but same as his hair, he figured that there were spots that hadn't ever been a problem, not even before Mycroft decided to... help, in his Holmes-ish weird fashion kind of way.

John pulled both Sherlock's feet into his lap, and started to actually watch the cooking show as a more reasonable recipe came up, all the while rubbing the genius' sock clad feet, until Sherlock actually moaned regularly, which felt more than gratifying to John at this point.

This close to Christmas, murder rates were, somewhat ironically, picking up, or perhaps Mycroft had pulled some strings to help keep his brother busy, and they were out most days. Sherlock had taken to holding John's hand during their frequent taxi rides, something the former soldier (oh, who was he fooling, he still was as much a soldier as ever, just a somewhat different kind) saw as a good sign that Sherlock was opening up a little more, not just to him for once but generally.

They worked as well together as ever, their partnership not having changed much at all with their relationship. They had been a little bit out of sync at first, as Sherlock had just returned, and John had been forced to try and be patient with the frequent little tells that showed just how much Sherlock had reverted back to coldness away from his influence.

Everyone already thought that they were dating, so they had not bothered much with talking about it. Harry didn't care and Mycroft had deduced, so the only ones they had actually told had been Mike, Molly and Lestrade, as well as a surprising visit out into a very nice, but not as grand as one might imagine, country house to introduce John to Sherlock's elegant, though strangely normal parents. As well as, of course, announcing the exciting news to a very elated Mrs Hudson. "It is about time, boys!" had been her given comment.

John thought of this hours later as he bent his head forward a little bit while he was writing a new blog post, having much fodder for them these days, to lend Sherlock more space to rub his neck. The consulting detective continued to touch him at every opportunity when they were alone together, and John found it much easier to enjoy it now that he had more ways in order to reciprocate.

As John tap tap tapped away on his computer, he found himself relaxing under the familiar, loving touches, and knew that Sherlock could see his smile reflected in the computer screen. Things might not be very normal, by most people's standards, but they were good.

 _Hey, look, it is the original reference to my signature! (Yes, TapTap is a laptop writing sound. Bet you didn't know that's what it was!) All recognisable content belongs to its respective owners._

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	15. Chapter 15

Mycroft looked up from his desk as John entered. "Ah. Doctor Watson". He put his pen down. "I heard you and my brother had a small... altercation, recently.

John frowned, accepting the "minor government official"'s gesture for him to take a seat as he was also sitting "I heard you kidnapped and tortured your brother, recently". He got a typical, fake smile in responce "touche, doctor Watson. Now, I wanted to talk to you about my brother. He seems somewhat troubled". John knew enough of them to be able to recognise the honest concern beneath the obvious arrogance.

Because he did, he replied honestly. "No, we didn't as much as I pushed him a little bit too far. He doesn't seem to hold it against me. He never does". Mycroft nodded thoughtfully. "You cannot overwrite bad memories with other bad memories, John" his voice was unusually kind, obviously he for once wasn't trying to play a cold villain or indeed, Iceman. "You must move forward so slowly that he barely realises, and make him like it". The disturbing smile was back "that ought not to be too hard for you, after all".

John rolled his eyes and rose, tired of this conversation already, but it seemed that Mycroft wasn't, as the door was shut and one touch assured John that it was locked. He turned around, somewhat impatiently "what, Mycroft?"

"Take care with my little brother's heart" the cold man said blankly, but John still knew how sincere he was at a mere glance, even less than that, in fact.

John decided, in the black car taking him back to Baker Street, that, for once, he would take Mycroft's advice, as he, if indeed anybody could, might really understand just how Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, actually worked. He guessed that at least sometimes, it might really take one to know one, and when it came to a Holmes, he suspected that was the simple truth.

He had already determined it best to take it slowly, after all, to enjoy what they had and not rush it by being too brave, as his work with Sherlock had taught him that there indeed was such a thing, and he now felt more determined than ever. He was going to savour all the good they had been granted and not dwell too much on the bad.

 _Pot and kettle, Mr M Holmes. All recognisable content belongs to its respective owners._

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	16. Chapter 16

_This might be the closest I will ever get to writing smut, and, what with John's words in chapter 12, non-con. Also, this chapter contains no sex or in any way questionable consent. It is all shameless "grown men cuddling affectionately" material. All recognisable content belongs to its respective owners._

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It was early Christmas morning when John woke, surrounded, as it felt, by sleepy Consulting Detective in seemingly every direction. "Morning!" He greeted him gruffly, shifting a little bit so that he could fully breathe. "Do you plan on cuddling me all day, or do you want to exchange gifts?" he inquired in a softer voice, smiling.

"Cuddling _is_ my gift for you" Sherlock said, resting his head on John's chest. "Proper cuddling. Just as you'd like it, for as long as you want to. No restrictions". He ran a hand down Johns side, just to the end of his ribs, then back up again. "Just cuddling, though. And I did get you a... socially acceptable gift, as well".

"Sherlock..." John said doubtfully, but the taller man merely shook his head, assuring him "I want you to". John looked into his eyes, searching them closely, then somewhat doubtfully ran a hand across his shoulders, further from the neck than he ever normally did. Sherlock shivered a little, but there was no sounds of discomfort, and his genius didn't tense up. John decided that he would see this gift simply for what it was, and accept it for that, too. And enjoy it for the rare treat that it was to him.

"Alright" he simply stated, stroking the soft hair of the man who had somehow captured his heart "shall we start with those socially acceptable gifts first?" He suggested, his mind going over the possibilities of a completely unhindered cuddling session excitedly. He wanted to saviour that. When Sherlock nodded, John let him go to bend over the edge of the bed, grabbing three neat little packages.

When he turned over to face him again, Sherlock had done the same, obviously, and four packages of very different sizes and appearances were waiting for him. John handed one of his packages over to Sherlock and let the genius choose one to give to him. He choose a large, gleefully christmas-wrapped one and nudged it over.

They both awaited the other to start, and John finally did it, revealing a handknitted angora jumper of a sky-blue that no doubt went perfectly with his eyes. Smiling widely, he bent forward to give Sherlock a soft, quick, thank-you kiss. Sherlock smiled brilliantly in turn and unwrapped his own gift, which turned out to be silver cufflinks in the form of old-fashion magnifiers.

Smiling just as widely and thanking him warmly, Sherlock gave John a kiss in turn and handed him his next gift. They continued in this way, also unwrapping, on Sherlock's part; a new scarf and a book on bees, and as far as John went, a suit more expensive than any he had ever owned, a year's prenumeration on all the medical journals he felt was worthwhile to read, and lastly, a folder full of sheets with notes, all songs for the violin, composed by Sherlock just for him. He smiled wider than anything for those, and gave Sherlock a somewhat less polite kiss.

John preceeded to sit up and straddle the detective, who no longer wore shirts to bed, running his hands eagerly over his pale chest. Sherlock placed his hands on John's hips, knowing full well that his doctor much preferred touching if it was reciprocated, wanted it to feel fully consensual even if it was innocent, and he respected him for that.

John smiled as he felt Sherlock touch him in turn, however slightly that it was, running his hands down his sides, taking full advantage of this opportunity to finally get to know the body of his partner since over a year now. He took his time, running his hands gently and steadily across the somewhat still figure underneath him, exploring every inch of Sherlock's chest and abdomen, adding a few kisses for good measure.

Sherlock flinched the first time John kissed his skin, as if he automatically assumed it was something else, and John knew then that it took a lot of effort for him to attempt to enjoy this, but then he had known that already. He suspected that Sherlock had undergone hours of mental preparations to do this so nicely. He was grateful for it. Acceptance or not, touching a rigid, unwilling Sherlock had absolutely no charm, while this was purely heavenly. Then again, he was positive his very own genius knew that.

They spent a long time just touching sedately and spooning, before Sherlock rolled over to let John explore his back. This time, he was less relaxed, but one or two low sounds of enjoyment as John teased out his strong back and shoulder muscles was enough to mollify the doctor on this score.

Eventually they lay facing each other again, and Sherlock gently guided John to lie on his back this time, whispering a "happy Christmas" in his ear, accompanied by a just as soft "I love you". It was merely a taste of what they might eventually enjoy together, but it was exhilarating, John decided as he finally gave up control over their little encounter and let Sherlock kiss down his abdomen.


	17. Chapter 17

_So here's our happy ever after... for now? I can't believe how long this series became in the end, what with the complete lack of basically any plot, conflict or, anything else whatsoever. There's a short bonus scene of New Year's Eve with Sherlock's parents, set between last chapter and this one, which will be sent to people who review to this story. If you don't know what to put in a review, try this: What made you read this story? What was your favourite chapter/moment/element? Why?_

 _Thank you so much to everyone who is reviewing to this story - it really is a very big part of getting inspired for new chapters and rest assured it is very much appreciated. I hope you have enjoyed this tale!_

 _There is a sequel to this story, called "A Johnlock Christmas", which consists of a prequel followed by seven chapters set the next Christmas. Because of popular demand, there is also third installment called "Loving a Genius", taking place yet another year later and finally a Christmas special, set after their wedding. All recognisable content belongs to its respective owners. As ever._ _Duh._

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John stretched out on the blanket and looked up at the clear blue sky happily. They were out on Mycroft's country estate (well, one of them, anyway) for a few days, living in a small cottage surrounded by roses this time of year, and John thoroughy enjoyed the peace and quiet, even though he suspected Sherlock would eventually get bored enough to crawl out of his own skin. But as of yet, there were no signs of that.

The cottage was small, with only two real rooms, plus a surprisingly luxurious bathroom, and not much of a kitchen. This, however, was not a problem as the main house, located about three miles away, sent them wonderful food trice a day. Today that proved to be thoroughly suitable picnic foods for lunch, and Sherlock (and wasn't that unexpected) had suggested they grab a blanket - they had many wonderful ones to choose from, after all - and eat it out under the fruit trees.

John continued to bask in the sun as Sherlock had made himself in charge of picking the food out of the basket they had gotten it in, setting the little containers out on the blankets. Jon eventually leaned up on his elbow, surveying the food on offer. There was a cold potato salad that looked delicious, as well as am equally tempting dish of seasoned pasta, together with a whole selection of vegetables, cheeses and cool meat, like barbequed and marinated steak as well as different kinds of filet. It all looked delicious, not to mention the different kinds of dessert pies that were even more tempting.

One box stood out though. It was a small, black velvet box that looked like a jewelry container. Puzzeled, John took it up, opening it without noticing how Sherlock suddenly focused all of his attention on his face.

Inside sat a white gold ring set with a large, ice blue stone. It was gorgeous, and a note above it said "Marry me, my love?" John let out a gasp and looked up at Sherlock, who smiled at him, though somewhat insecurely. John's heart leaped in his chest, and he opened his mouth to reply, only to awaken in bed, his heart in his throat.

Still breathing quickly, John looked around in his empty bedroom, then he looked down on his hand, where two white gold rings rested snuggly. As he heard movement in the doorway, he looked up, smiling at the genius, his for always "I dreamt of our orchyard".

 _Evil cliffhangers are evil. Oh come on, I had to! But I am not really that evil._

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